


fixit1.5.1_h4nd-c0vers-bruise(repri5e).mp3

by glycerineclown



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Episode 5 Fix-It Fic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I WILL AVENGE YOU, Shayla Lives, YOU'RE GOING HOME WITH ELLIOT DARLING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's duct tape around her ankles and wrists, over her mouth—and her face looks even paler in contrast with it, but her eyes open wide when he pops the trunk, and then close in relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fixit1.5.1_h4nd-c0vers-bruise(repri5e).mp3

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** Canon-typical amounts of blood, emotional trauma, talk of drug use.
> 
> Title because the show's score reminds me so much of Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross' work on _The Social Network_.

She’s not dead.

Shayla’s not dead.

There's duct tape around her ankles and wrists, over her mouth—and her face looks even paler in contrast with it, but her eyes open wide when he pops the trunk, and then close in relief.

He pulls the tape off Shayla’s mouth first, and then moves to her wrists, bound behind her back. If they’d been in front, she could have gotten the tape off her mouth and screamed, could have broken a taillight, anything. He feels tears well up as he fights with the tape, and the time it takes him to free her wrists with just his hands and the car keys feel like an eternity.

He just keeps repeating, “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” and “He’s gone, I promise,” and there’s shouting from prison guards and the whooping from the escaped in the distance—they can’t be seen here, there’ll be cops everywhere soon. 

There’s a big bruise on the side of her face, and he helps her sit up, her calves dangling out of the trunk. Blood had been dripping into her eye, and it’s dry now, blending with her dark makeup. He kneels at her feet to get at her ankles and she slumps over him, cradling his head.

“I heard gunshots,” she says, her voice shredded, and he nods into her hands. He’ll have to make sure she doesn’t see Isaac’s body.

The sirens keep calling. He helps Shayla to her feet, and she grips the shoulders of his sweatshirt.

He can’t take her on the subway like this.

“I have to pee,” she whispers, but she can barely stand. Elliot looks around, into the bushes, and back at the prison fences. 

“Here, uh, just pee in the trunk,” he says, and the side of her mouth quirks up, but otherwise, her face is still pretty blank.

“That sounds good,” she says, sitting back down gingerly. He looks away as she pulls her skirt and underwear down.

Afterward, Elliot tells her to close her eyes and helps her into the passenger seat. He buckles her in, and finds a half-full water bottle in the footwell, and unscrews it, tipping some into her mouth.

She shakes her head after she swallows a mouthful, and pushes him away. “Get me out of here, Elliot.”

He nods, and does.

 

He’s not used to driving in the city, hasn’t since he moved into this apartment. Elliot parks illegally, in front of a hydrant on their block, and helps her up the stairs to their door. They use the too-slow elevator for once.

She laughs a little bit when they’re in the hallway, looking at both of their doors, and presses her face into his neck.

Her keys are missing, and her phone is too—and the only person who might have told him where either of those went is currently in a pool of his own blood.

Flipper’s barking is muted behind Elliot’s door. He unlocks it, and they step inside. Flipper’s shit on the floor again, right in the middle of the kitchen. 

They walk past the mess and into the bedroom.

“I need to move the car, dump it somewhere,” he says, as he helps Shayla sit down on the end of his bed. “Can I call Darlene and have her come stay here with you?”

Shayla nods, bringing her hands up to touch her face.

“You’re gonna be all right,” he says softly. “Let me get you some clothes.”

He pulls out his phone and calls Darlene while he rifles through his dresser to find Shayla some sweatpants, and then looks down at himself, peeling off his own hoodie.

She’ll be right over.

Shayla’s taken off her plaid shirt from that waitressing job, and he wraps the sweatshirt around her shoulders. She smiles softly and he keeps his eyes on her as he moves toward the bathroom for a washcloth. 

Elliot wets it lukewarm under the tap and comes back. He drags his desk chair over to the end of the bed and sits down, reaching for her with the washcloth, eyebrows raised—looking for permission. Shayla nods and scoots forward on the bed, closing her eyes, and he cringes in sympathy as he presses it to her skin, wiping away most of her makeup and blood. 

It’s like he thought—a little cut near her eyebrow looked a lot worse when she was allowed to bleed while lying on her stomach. The bruising is dark, though. It’ll take several days to heal.

Shayla tugs on the front of his t-shirt as Elliot’s hands drop to his lap, and she kisses his cheek. “Thank you,” she says, and he just stares at her, not sure what to do. 

Before all this happened—on the way back from Steel Mountain—he’d felt hope for the first time in what felt like years. 

“You need food,” he decides, and rushes into the kitchen. He opens a package of ramen into a bowl with water and puts it in the microwave. While it’s cooking, he finds a plastic bag, picks up the dog shit, and washes his hands.

Shayla is able to pull the sweatpants on herself, rolling them up above the raw skin at her ankles, and when he comes back with a bowl of drained noodles and a fork for her, she’s crying. Flipper is sitting next to her on the bed. For someone who cries so often, Elliot really doesn’t know what to say, so he just sits down on Shayla’s other side, lets her curl into his shoulder. He wipes his hand over his own eyes and sniffs into her hair.

A few minutes after that, Darlene’s banging on the door.

Once Elliot’s halfway through trying to explain everything that’s happened since she got him into the cop’s 4G network, he can’t talk anymore, it’s all too much, and Darlene insists that they’ll be fine, that he can go get rid of the car.

He leaves, abandons the car on the lowest level of a parking garage, wipes his prints from it.

When he gets back after 2 a.m., Shayla’s asleep in his bed again, and this time, he’s happy to see her there, he’s expecting her there. He goes to the side of the bed—her hair’s pulled back from her face, she’s curled on her side, a glass of water on the dresser.

He looks back at Darlene, who’s standing in the doorway.

“She’s fine,” Darlene says, hugging her backpack to her chest. “Just needs some R and R.”

Elliot nods, and goes to the door to see her out. “Thanks,” he says. He locks it behind her.

He sits at his computer and checks in on Krista before falling asleep on the couch. 

 

When he wakes up, Shayla’s going through his fridge. She was in a trunk for 26 hours because of him, he doesn’t care if she eats all the food he’s got.

He’ll pick the lock on Shayla’s apartment for her—nice to have a reason to do it that’s not illegal.

“Hey,” she says softly. She’s swamped in his clothing, holding a jar of peanut butter. “Do you have any jelly?”

“Are—are you okay?” he asks.

“Wish I could say I took some of your morphine,” she says. “My shoulders’re killing me. You want a sandwich?”

He gets up and guides her into a chair. “Let me.” 

“It’s kinda weird that you’re clean and I actually don’t have any drugs I can give you,” she says, looking up as Elliot takes plates out of a cabinet and places them on the counter. “This is a totally new dynamic in our relationship.”

He smiles a little and unwinds a loaf of bread. As he spreads the peanut butter and some strawberry preserves onto two pieces, she folds her arms on the tabletop and rests her head on them.

“We can... get reborn together,” he says to the butter knife in his hand.

“Promise?”

Elliot looks up at her, and she’s holding out her pinky. He smooshes the sandwich together, cuts it in half diagonally, and brings it to her, before linking his pinky with hers. 

“Yeah, I promise. I’ll get you some Advil.”

 

He goes to his appointment with Krista.

He tells her he’s clean. That he has a new girlfriend, and they’re taking care of each other.

She smiles at him.

She doesn’t believe him, and he doesn’t blame her, but it’s true.


End file.
